Cthulhu Roleplaying - Diary of Karl-Heinz Schutzmann
2019 © Andre M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Inspired by: Jörg Sterner's "Tagebuch eines unbekannten Toten (Diary of an unknown dead aka John Doe)" & Chris Enderle's "Minds of Madness"
24.12.1919
We celebrated Christmas. Finally the haunting memories of the war, and its aftermath, are beginning to cease. We had enough of ruins, starvation, dead relatives, and war torn wrecks all around us. But perseverance paid out, proverbially. Margaret oft had begun to doubt me, and our marriage. But we went to church, and we held our ground, little, as it is. And we shed our tears, due our kids having to go through all of this. But by now we are back in a small house, got some food, and even little gifts for our children.
"Thank you, God, for not testing us harder than we could stand. And forgive us our sins, as this age has become a purgatory for body and soul. Amen."
27.12.1919
Finally, a job. Coming back into regular pay, wages and salaries, instead of lurking in the alleys, and snatching from the gutter, alike rabid dogs. I am security guard now. Nothing outstanding, but given that our city is not even fully rebuilt, and that any god-serving man has to provide for the family. My brother often recited: "Better one rabbit in my hand than three rabbits hiding from us in the bushes!" God, please rest his soul, he already fell in 1917, and I wasn't even informed exactly when, or where.
04.01.1920
I dislike being in church. God, please forgive me, but I only join-in due Margaret and the kids. It had been celebrated, this new year. In a reserved way, even among the richer folks, but it was celebrated. I had secretly given my soldiers coat to the old wives, for changing it. Margaret no longer shudders and shivers in the cold. I had clearly seen how she suffered in the cold, all eager to have the kids in supply. But martyrdom is for saints, not for mothers. She has to face her duties, and handle the kids, whenever I am at work. Such is the workers way. The pub had not seen me in weeks, but my family is dressed and fed. Oh, sometimes I still think of Kaiser Wilhelm and his big speeches. We thought we'd earned it.
09.01.1920
The brewery is one more company in need of guards. Good for us, half the pennies and cents, which we poorer folks get, stem from that kinda need. New workmates and new talks, sometimes such feels good. But we all are poor folks, no high and mighty with us. After work I had to endure walking out of town to buy from the peasantry, even though my feet hurt and I was stiff and tired. My family deserves such extra efforts, and war had shown me the difference between a good father in contrast to an evil father! And there is ZERO difference, if it is "The German", or "The French", or "The Russian". Heaven and hell rule by their own predilections.
11.01.1920
Indeed, much like thieves in the night. Our work shifts occur, when regular folks are asleep for good. Baton and lantern. The uniform is cheap, but at least it makes me look civil and sober. Such does count, as we are German.
Today the boss showed up at work. He got three shepherd's dogs. Now we gotta patrol with them. All of us had to try, to find out who gets along best with the hounds.
Church today was enervating. The priest even attempted to encourage us to face daily routine. Thanks, God.
Margaret smiled, so long since I had seen a smile on her face. And the kids are back to worry and scream about children issues, no longer cowering alike hunted foxes in the woods. It seems healing started, and luckily so, as I could not afford the psychiatric care in a lifetime of work. The war left many of us below their original social standing after.
18.01.1920
In church Margaret had met acquaintances from her past. I rejoiced, as she had it tough enough herself. Seems the kids enjoyed it, too. Thanks, God. The priest does seem haughty and overfed though! Seems he considers himself worthier than all of us. Damn bible-apostle. I gotta take a nap, as my work shift begins in the evening.
My first night patrolling with a dog. The damp cold will force me to purchase some drops from the apothecary. Against coughing. And Margaret is bitching, due to me smoking those cheap cigars. But I daresay better smelly than making me children starve! At least its how I see living like this. Plus, I've been daring. Well, been shopping, where fine folks never show up and police raids are frequent. We got nigh half a pound of coffee and sugar. I have to stay awake at work, so it is a smart purchase. And, if I get some milk from the peasants a watery coffee for the kids will do fine. They won't die of it.
26.01.1920
We security guards see the city in nightly splendor, so much is certain. And thieves, burglars, and prostitutes - the banes of moralist normalcy. But during the war they all were mortals hunted by imminent death and destruction. Urban folks. Some of the wiser ones understand that I am not eager to be forced, or seduced, into their ways of life - I have a family to care for, no personal lusting for sin and risks.
04.02.1920
Something is odd in the area. I grew certain I have witnessed something weird, which is not explained due the usual smugglers and criminals. I do not even wanna know! Still my duty is my duty, hence I cannot play too ignorant, nor can I cower in fear. The dog nearly went nuts. Therefor it must have been some kinda feeling, or a stench most unusual. God, please, not again, we had a war full of gas attacks & artillery strikes to teach us the invisible, swift death is not a myth!
08.02.1920
God in heaven! Margaret really came to ask my "permission". As if I had married her to end her happiness. On the contrary, I married her, for she was the one woman, who made this life seem worth all the efforts. For her I lived and would gladly die. Must be her nerves, after all the messy years. Thanks, God. Nice to know Margaret and the kinds fill their Sunday with something better than me snoring & slumbering to prepare for work.
The night was dark, and something malevolent was in the air. What a lousy proverb. But I am not that easily fooled, surviving the trenches had made me become a cautious and vigilant man. The storehouses we guard these nights had served as supply depots during the war. Hence too many knew them in detail. Many learned to hide in the dark. I will keep my composure, not signaling that I noticed anything odd, for now. Playing dumb is a talent each German worker learns early on.
09.02.1920
Same area again, the storehouses. Someone weird has lots of nightly secrecy to do here. And it MUST BE weird, as regular criminals ain't like that. On the morrow I will eavesdrop on my workmates, if anyone made similar observations.
11.02.1920
Workmate Gustav had dragged me into the motion picture show, to see a silent movie, as they call it. In my estimation Gustav is deeply shaken, not a mere coward. Nearly, as back then, when the surreal moment of doubt was banished by the grenades, or shells, exploding! Fast and merciless Grim Reaper.
I ain't a moron. That movie shown only was Gustav's way to verify my suspicions, it did not mean that literary we are haunted by spooky fiends from other planets. I felt ashamed, as I was unable to pay him back the entry fee. But I will remedy that, or invite him into the pub. It is the right thing to do, as being German includes correctness, it is inborn, not merely taught in school!
[ The original part here was about the movie 'Nosferatu', but it was broadcast in 1922, and hence I made a research mistake in the original, German version. I did not repeat it herein though. ]
14.02.1920
My dog, named Götz, is a smart one! Damn, what that dog knew why we patrol. It was during shift, out at night, storage area again, when the dog staged an act about being sniffy and dutiful, producing an excuse for us to check-out the suspicious storehouse from close by! Prudent doggy, heroism on four paws.
Margaret would smack me with her frying pan, for risking such. In a lovely way though. But here curiosity borders duty. Something therein threatens us all.
And indeed, it has not been too hard to wait for an opportunity. We investigated, and found wares closer to a witch's cauldron than modern science, or products sold on the markets. Since the war, and those gas attacks, I have been aware such is mostly appreciated by foreign priests, or insane doctors.
15.02.1920
Oh, I barely slept well this time. Nightmares haunted me. Weird mixtures of war-time memories and impressions from that alien atmosphere in the storehouse. Best remedy is workouts, as supply of coffee runs low again, and we all have to discipline ourselves now and then...
Church today was not for me. Still thanks, God, for keeping us secure and well enough. A woman had inquired from Margaret, how we had spent the celebration days. I did not even notice those had passed by, to be honest. Poor folks have their daily routine to struggle with, mostly so. Pleasantries and stylish choices are so much easier among the rich folks.
17.02.1920
Finally I can take notes again. The kids had snatched the pencil. I've been in the library, public sort. I hate it, when I am the poor sob in public. Because I make my living with honest work, and did not harm anybody else along the way. I am one more guy, who has to provide for the family during harsher times, that's simply it. We all have our duties and routines.
Anyway, the paraphernalia I had glimpsed in that storehouse did not fit in. They were more than odd, just as I had noted, more witches cauldron than scientific tools. But it did not end there, something about merely looking at those already spawned bad moods and weird dreams.
The boss finally gave us permission to drink coffee, if we can get some for ourselves, and only, where he can't be held responsible. He expects us to turn water boiling into an arson, or so. Well, for years the steel helmet on our heads had to be the cooking pot, too. That war bred improvisers, but it feels like mocking those who died, when lighter moods take me.
18.02.1920
I was shaken out of slumber by a worried Margaret. Her face still aghast from an unpleasant surprise. Had not seen her that worried, since I had enrolled to join the Great War, when I was seventeen (ergo anno 1914). And yes, I had been naive, ignorant, and patriotic like all those, who had trusted in their uppers and superiors words. By now all the world knew what a toll in blood we paid for it.
She insisted I had been thrashing and screaming in my sleep, but I could not remember any of it. So I held myself back, as both my kids were afraid of me, and I watched Margaret calm them down, while I apologized from afar, unwilling to discomfort them even more, though I longed to hug the both of them.
A dire cold, the damp sort again, greets me on my way to work. Damn.
19.02.1920
Police had to intervene. They had ambushed us on the job. It was moments after work shift had begun, we were harshly there, when they jumped us from cars and dark alleys. Not regular criminals, some weird thugs in skirts, but wielding sickles and knife in a murderous frenzy!
Two of my colleagues died that night, the rest of us would be back to work after some days in hospital, or is it called lazarett? Whoever informed our wives should be ashamed. Margaret paled, when she saw me with those stab-wounds, and hugging her spoiled the coat she got against the cold. Getting blood out of wool is nigh impossible.
It was a real street-fight. Hack, slash, and stab, much as those cavalry riders boasted with their sabers drawn, when praising Kaiser Wilhelm. Thanks, God. For workmates and a wife, who couldn't be worthier.
28.02.1920
A police detective had paid us a visit. Margaret felt a bit humiliated, due us being poor and limited in hosting guests, but I did not mind. We may be poor, but we are honest folks and harmed nobody else. The kids stared, with unmasked curiosity, as children tend to be in their younger years.
The detective asked me to agree to an appointment, over in some newspaper archive he insisted would prove useful. Searching dusty papers, for nothing else came to my mind. But I agreed.
Somehow it COULD make sense, as those knife-stabbers in skirts sure had a motive for their attempts to kill us.
04.03.1920
Today I met with detective Dietrich Wedel, to search those dusty tomes in the newspaper archive. Nearly three hours of scrutiny, to uncover a handful of stories similar to our own ambush and conclusions. Several of them had never seen the public eye, blacked ink, or called back from print. I wondered what highly skilled workers could get such a feat done. Must be formidable specimen.
So, there are cults gone insane, who believe pacting with ancient deities would somehow further their goals. Not monetarily, but power, or sorcery-wise. I am no expert on occultism, but I did understand that detective Wedel seemed to expect their motive having to do with their mindset.
More noteworthy to me, personally, was that Gustav seemed pretty right about us not being the only ones, who had observed weird going-ons kept away from the public eye.
07.03.1920
Today, in church, I was kinda warned by God. My death nears, why, I have no clue. I gotta ensure Margaret and the kids won't be endangered. Then I can take my leave, for good. For a widow life can be harsh, when money runs low. And my kids, I so would have loved to see them grow into adults, who no longer need their aging parents to provide for them. But it will never be, and I am unshaken in believing that God knows why it has to turn out like that. I am a soldier, no trial of fire we would not charge into, if it is really necessary.
Gustav had awaited me outside the church. Kept himself away from the priest sermon, the cunning fellow. He was accompanied by a woman nearly clad like those skirt-knifers we got attacked by. He wanted me to accompany them to some secret meeting, all about what we spawned forth by noticing the storehouse area. Mere glimpse, but one book he kept in his tiny car was entitled: "Fearing no darckness..."
11.03.1920
We tracked the wicked ones down, and followed them to their leader's hideout. It was no easy feat, shadowing them from the storehouse, through alleys and side-streets, out of the city, into the peasant's no mans land between the cities of Borbeck, Oberhausen, and Bottrop. The fields and last open spots, due the military airport being... Well, the war IS over, and that is good.
14.03.1920
If I live thru today's church chorus, then I am veteran soldier of two wars. Maybe I am blessed. At least, as others did not survive that long.
72 hours we had been that mansion of the supposed cult leader. We, that had been three teams, each four people prepared for trouble in it. All of us physically fit and armed, because the skirt-knifers had already attacked us.
It was a fatal mistake. I am shivering and shaking, like comrades, who couldn't bear it any longer during the Great War. Right now just for some moments, but my mind feels shell-shocked by a horror I cannot even write notes about. I don't want to play it down, when it comes to Margaret. But even less I want her threatened by knowing the truth, as THAT could make her a target.
And so I am holding her hand, while lying into her face. God, please, let it be the right thing to do. God, please, protect my family. Amen.
The horror, which had awaited us, was not merely brewed in some witch's cauldron. All we had expected were mad cultists dancing around their weird mockery of some golden calf (moon-calf empires), or orgies, or Satanism, or maybe even communism! But we were naive about the truth of it.
The menace, worshiped by the cultists, was not just a madness to cure away. Nor was it just a bogeyman. No simple dragon impaled and undone by the valiant, holy knight.
And, for us survivors, three of the twelve, yes, only 3 of 12 returned alive: Responsibility weighs heavy, as we know we cannot hide from the need to end this terror. Much like a secret group of loyalists, who must now consider how their final sacrifice could hinder an evil this world should not even be capable of! The same evil, which already triumphed by forever separating us from the mortals we lived with, the loved ones, and those we celebrated with.
I found one of my old stashes from the war. It was intact, and all I could do to help Margaret, and our kids, make it into safety. Desperate measures, but convinced it is a necessary deed to do.
After church I nigh press-ganged Margaret, and our offspring, to the train station. Tears in my eyes I handed her my last riches, and awaited the moment of realization that Margaret Schutzmann, the wife, would soon be Margaret Schutzmann, born Margaret Gerber, the widow. Clumsy, but better for the kids, so they can learn it in time, when ready for it and surrounded by Margaret's remaining family.
I long stared after the leaving train, honor-bound to know them save. Mourning that I would never be there, united with them, ever again.
That evil festers on our madness, our sickness, and all the squalor poverty unleashes. It grows stronger that way, until it can overwhelm our kind. We have to prevent that.
And we tried, as the fire we started was from the outer circle, burning inwards due the gasoline we splashed, ensuring that nothing could easily get out alive. Deep inside we awaited the onslaught, grenades ready to detonate, when the enemy was in ground zero. So much more I wanted to be with Margaret and the children, but this must be done, we can't expect others to die, when we cravenly flee the final stand.
God, be with us in these final moments, amen.
END